


Comfort and Carp

by Elucreh



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elucreh/pseuds/Elucreh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have always taken care of each other, any way they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort and Carp

**Author's Note:**

> Andreanna requested Trio, voyeurism, outsider POV, UST, frottage, angst; further prodding added pocket watch, Muggle temporary tattoos, fake vomit, comforter, koi fish. (Sorry, there were no pocket watches to be had.) Thanks, as always, to the amazing betas D and T, who will be revealed anon. A very merry Smutmas to you, Andreanna…I hope you enjoy.

** _November 29, 1997_ **

I started Hermione on the quilt the day that Harry disappeared on his own for the first time.

Harry'd taken it into his stubborn head that he had to do the actual destroying-things on his own, and when Ron and Hermione protested he'd simply disappeared on them in the middle of the night, taking the locket with him.

Both of them had spent the day fretting—Ron pacing about the room, swearing under his breath, and Hermione wringing her hands and asking over and over again what they were going to do. I tried to get them to eat for several hours—my own lip nearly bitten through with worry—but when that failed, I sent Bill upstairs to haul Ron away from his worries and bustled into Harry's room to deal with Hermione myself.

Hermione glanced distractedly at the enormous bundle of nubby cloth that I'd dumped on the bed.

"Let's get started, dear, shall we?" I said briskly. "Where are your needles?"

"Oh, Mrs. Weasley…I'm sorry, but—I _can't_—"

"Healthier and better for your skin than just wringing your hands," I said, wryly, glancing down at my own twisted fingers. "I know you can't help but fret, dear, but you might as well do something useful in the meantime. Idle hands! I'd been meaning to get around to teaching you so you could do this, and this is just the time for it."

Looking puzzled, Hermione reached over and lifted a sleeve from the heap on the bed. "Are these—jumpers? The ones you made?"

"Yes, dear—Harry's and Ron's since they started Hogwarts, and the two you had with you…you might like to owl your parents for the rest. It's time you took on a big project, and a quilt would be just the thing to learn on."

Hermione frowned a little, getting interested in spite of herself. "You mean, make a comforter out of all these jumpers? How does that work? They're knitted already…is it sewn?"

I smiled a little. "Still got your Knumber Six Kno-Drop Knitting Kneedles?"

When Ginny was alive, the best thing for her had been to keep her busy, too.  
  
********************************************

_March 18, 2002_

Seamus had flooed them half an hour ago, worried that Harry was drinking himself blind alone in a pub. Hermione had sighed and worried; Ron had gotten dressed and gone to fetch him.

"Easy there, Harry," Ron murmured, settling him onto the bed they kept for him, leaning up against the headboard. Harry looked up at him blearily.

"Woan' tell Er-mynee?" Harry slurred. "Jus—jus' came over to talk abou the game, thassall. Wuz a gd gaaaame…"

"Sorry I missed it, mate," Ron said, smiling easily as he began to tug at Harry's shoes. "Goddamn paperwork…"

"Coulda dunnit, yno." Harry was looking up at him with huge, stupid eyes that were still red from the tears he'd been scraping from them. "Coulda been a player, withme, butnoooooo, hadto bea big Auror, savingpeople…I didn wanto save 'em anymore, couldn…couldn save _her_, no use saving no one…"

Ron froze a little before he said, gently, "Is this about Ginny, Harry?"

Harry nodded solemnly for almost half a minute before shaking his head a little. "There…wuzza…girl. Afterthegame. She said…she was _nice_, and—pretty—and—anshe knew me, she wazzin…she was at school. Harrie—Hannah. Hannah. We wento a bar, andshe boughtme a drink. A fewdrinks. An shesed…she said sheliked myarse. She said inschool she used to—watchme—wanted…wantedto…and it's beenalongtime, longtime since…since…"

"Since Ginny?" Ron filled in softly, slipping a finger under the other man's sock.

"Yeah. Sinceanybody. So…soIsed sure…'d likethat…and we—we went to herplace—and—but itdidn' work!" Harry gave his friend an anguished glance.

Startled, Ron looked up from the shirt he was unbuttoning. "_What_ didn't work?"

"We were—an' I—touched her—and—she—made a noise—it was—_Ginny's noise_—all—sweet and—and high—and—and it just—I couldn'—I—"

"Oh, Harry," Ron leaned up and rested his forehead against his friend's for a moment before going back to his buttons. "How did Hannah take it?"

"She was—she was fine. Not—not _fine_, but she wasn—she was _nice_, she—she hugged me and—and—she was—sad, but she—she helped mefind myshirt and shesaid—she said shewas sorry. For—for making me remember. And I was—I was so _sad_, Ron—and sorry, too, cause itwasn't her—fault."

"And it wasn't _your_ fault, either, mate," Ron said sternly, pulling him forward to get the shirt sleeves off him.

"Wastoo. Wastoo. Myfault. Fallininluv. Stupidthing…to do, makeagirl—die, likethat. Shoulda—shoulda let her stay withDean, be—happy—be—living."

"Harry—Harry—" Ron grabbed his shoulders and shook him a little. "She was happy. She _was_. She wouldn't have stayed away from you for—for all the gold in Gringott's, do you understand me?"

"Hah. Herfault, then. Herfault. Fallininlove. With _me_. And Hannah—Hannah's herfault toooo, then. Hah. Ginny's stoppin' me from…annow I'll never…never be…never havesomebody. Never…never kids…'rahouse…'r_sex_, neverever, just—just besad, 'nsorry."

"Harry," Ron sighed, reaching up to pull gently at the other man's hair until Harry was looking at him. "No, _look_ at me. You'll find someone. You will."

"Hah." Harry's tone was sullen, but he didn't drop his gaze; his eyes dared Ron to make him feel better. "Haven…havenbeennear awumman insollllong…don't knowfi even know howtokiss anymore. Lipsuv prolly stopped working, too, jusslike therest."

"Harry, your lips still work." Ron shook his head and went to pull off Harry's jeans…no wonder Hannah'd felt moved to comment, the things were practically painted on.

"Hah. Howwud youknow?"

"You're talking, aren't you?"

"'Mpissin, too, wassat gotta do withit?"

"Harry, I'm telling you, I promise, you know how to kiss." Ron grunted and gave a last tug—and the jeans finally, _finally_ came off.

"Do not."

"Do too. Was Hannah complaining?" He reached behind Harry to yank the turned-down covers far enough to tuck him in.

"Hannahwas…Hannahwas tipsy. Prolly drooled alloverher. Prolly alwayswas lousy, Cho cryin, Ginny lovedme, she wuddensay anythin, anHannah was all…happy anfizzy an giggly…nobody totell me…alwaysbeen lousy. Always be. Neverlearn."

In his exasperation, Ron dropped the coverlet and leaned down to look into his friend's face, most of his weight on his hands, which were still straddling Harry's body. "Harry, I'm sure you're a very good kisser."

Harry went suddenly still, and Ron became very, very aware of the space between them as it warmed and expanded and shrunk all at once, flickering along his skin.

Harry's voice had gone breathless as he said, "Am not."

Ron found that his own voice had suddenly dropped into its very bassest baritone. "I'm sure you are."

"Care to find out?" And with that, Harry reached up, and pulled Ron's mouth to his.

But Ron was already there, and he opened his mouth as they approached one another, wrapping his lips around Harry's thinner ones, their soft inner skin tickling against stubble. Harry made a half-desperate little noise in the back of his throat and parted his own lips, pushing his tongue into Ron's mouth, where it skated and slid, moist and moving and alive.

Harry's hands slipped back and gripped his neck, too strong, too gripping, speaking in their desperation to keep contact, and Ron swung his leg up and over his friend's body, resting his weight on that leg and one hand to keep his balance as he slid an arm under Harry, moving his hand over Harry's back in strong, reassuring strokes. Slowly, Harry's grip relaxed, but as the tension left his hands it moved across the rest of his skin until he was trembling beneath his friend.

"Ssshhh…" Ron murmured, pulling back just enough to catch Harry's lower lip between his teeth. Harry's breath choked out in a tone just short of hurting and he jerked up, bumping their hips together. Ron let his tongue apologise and moved back and up, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the top of Harry's head, his forehead, his nose, working his way back to that hot, eager mouth. With every wet imprint left on his skin, a little more tension left Harry's muscles, and he jumped a little less, until he was matching the rhythm Ron was setting against his lips with his legs and back, rocking gently but firmly up, pressing their hardening cocks together.

Ron felt one of Harry's feet slip in the tangled sheets, and when Harry rose this time he caught the sensitive spot on Ron's cock, with enough pressure to make Ron cry out and drop to his elbows, all the weight of his lower body on Harry, one leg still trailing to the ground down the side of the bed. He scrabbled for purchase, for friction, clenching muscles to rock against Harry's cock, feeling Harry's desperate little whines vibrating against his skin as he roughly rubbed his cloth-covered cock against the bare flesh reaching through the gap in Harry's boxers. He, too, got tangled in the sheets…frantically trying to kick himself free, he fell instead, flat on top of Harry, and Harry moaned and came, mouth stilling beneath Ron's, arms clutching Ron to him, hips still feebly bucking.

Ron gave him a moment, but couldn't help wriggling a little, impatiently, and he felt Harry's smile against his upper lip as one hand slid around to his waist and popped the buttons of his flies, releasing his impossibly hard cock to the warm air between them. The hand wrapped around him and rubbed firmly, calluses catching on the veins, and he came, strangling on his own release.

Harry huffed out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh or a sigh, and then his breathing gentled and slowed, the hand on Ron's back still moving in broad, hard strokes as Ron rode out the aftershocks.

As Ron's muscles slowly came back from their jellied state, Harry's hand slowed, and stopped. Ron brushed their chapped lips together lightly and pushed himself up off his friend. Harry clutched at him sleepily, hand fisting in his shirt. Biting his lip for a moment, Ron eased his hand from under Harry's back and stroked his arm. "Easy there, Harry," he murmured, and Harry's fingers unclenched. Gently, he lifted Harry's arm off and slid off the bed.

It took only a few moments to cast a soft cleaning charm, to straighten and pull up the tangled sheets. The room had grown chilled with the draft from the door, and so he added the nubbly, imperfect patchwork quilt Hermione kept for Harry's bed. Ron twisted the cap off the waiting hangover potion and ran his hand lightly over Harry's hair.

Then he went upstairs to his wife, and shut the door.

*******************************************  
**  
_December 2, 1997_**

"Captain Brilliance, there, decided to go fly-fishing for dementors," I heard Ron say, viciously, through the door. I'd made him go take a hot shower while I settled Harry in bed, even before explanations.

"What do you mean?" The clicking of Hermione's needles stopped.

"I mean, the silly arse was flying above a crowd of them, dangling the locket from a string and trying to land it in one of their mouths. Every time he missed he pulled it back up and tried again."

"…Tell me you're joking," and Hermione sounded as though she didn't know whether to break Harry's neck or his broomstick first. I know, because it's exactly the way I was feeling myself.

"Swear it. Damn good thing he taught me my Patronus…his was so weak it wasn't even a stag, just vapor, by the time I got there. I can't _believe_ he was so _stupid_ as to—"

Hermione interrupted him. "Oh, trust me. He won't be that stupid ever again. I simply won't allow it." Her needles started again, steady and somehow more determined than they had been.

I relaxed and went down the stairs.   
  
*******************************************

_March 19, 2002_

When Harry awoke the next morning, the faint smell of sex and the incredible headache hit him at approximately the same moment. He winced away from the bright strip of light escaping the curtains, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, like a gift from the gods, he could see an open bottle of potion sitting on the bedside table, the trademark electric-orange of a hangover remedy. Closing his eyes against the color as he struggled to sit up, he reflected that some advertising departments had a sick sense of humour. He reached out cautiously until he found the bottle with his unseeing hand and could lift it to his lips, swallowing twice.

When the fireworks had died out of his head and esophagus, he cracked one eyelid cautiously, relieved for approximately point-two seconds that the light was no longer painful before what he was looking at registered.

In his immediate sight line was a knitted white snowflake on a blue field, with more snowflakes going in a band across a square, which was joined with two maroon squares and a green square with a dragon on it. It was their quilt, which meant he was indubitably at Ron and Hermione's, which meant that he'd had a wet dream in Hermione's spare bed.

Despite the fact that he knew all it was going to take to clear the evidence was a good laundering spell—and he _did_ know the charm—there was a guilty squirm in his stomach at the thought. Possibly all of Aunt Petunia's foisting the laundry off on him _had_ instilled a linens-related conscience in him. He'd never noticed it before, but on the other hand he wasn't exactly in the habit of ruining other people's laundry.

Sighing, he climbed out of bed and fished in the sleeve of the shirt he'd been wearing for his wand, now hung neatly over the back of a chair. He pulled the quilt back to reveal—nothing. No kind of wet spot at all. He frowned a little. He was _sure_ he'd smelled…he shrugged, and made the bed. Then he grabbed the towel laid over the footboard, and went to take a shower.

Judging by the clock in the hall, Hermione had been up for about an hour, and Ron would still be in bed for another half or so, so Harry took over their bathroom with a clear conscience, turning the shower on to let the water heat up and brushing his teeth with the spare toothbrush Hermione kept in the stand for him. He spat and rinsed, then shed his boxers and stepped into the spray, letting out a soft "mmmmm" as the water ran over his skin.

It felt especially good this morning, skating over bruises that he'd probably gotten during the game, still high on adrenaline, and Harry didn't stop to wonder at them, working a lather over his skin, rinsing off, and letting his hand wander up a little, teasing at his skin, before he began to rub at his cock. He loved stealing a wank here, Hermione moving about below, Ron still innocently curled up in bed. It made one of his favorite images—the two of them, together under the spray, Hermione's head tipped to let her hair fall down her back, Ron's hand grasping at her soapy arse—easy to reach for and expand on.

In his head, Hermione gasped and laughed a little, arching her body to meet Ron's, rubbing her hips provocatively up against him. Ron laughed too, low and affectionate, and cupped both hands beneath her bottom, scooping her up to balance her against the wall, kissing her slowly and possessively. It was Hermione who finally gave in and lost patience with still hands and locked lips, wriggling against her husband, reaching beneath her to position his hard cock just right, loosening her legs until he had slid inside her.

They rocked together, warm and loving, Ron licking at her neck, Hermione's hands tangled in Ron's hair. Ron raised one hand to rub at her clit, and she came, crying out softly, pulling Ron's climax from him in long, shuddering strokes.

Harry moaned, muting the hoarse cry in case Hermione should be coming up to check on him, and came all over the tiles, the water washing away the evidence as he stood gasping in the shower stall.

When he arrived in the kitchen, Hermione was sitting at the table, reading the _Prophet_ with a small frown on her face. Her hair was pulled away from her face in lopsided ponytail, and she was still wearing her dressing gown and slippers. He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the light gild the lapel of her dressing down as it disappeared under her breasts.

"Good morning," she said, smiling at him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Breakfast? I did some bacon and eggs, or there's oatmeal if you'd rather."

"Bacon and eggs?" Harry looked about eagerly.

"Oh, no trouble, I'll get them," Hermione assured him, standing up. "You just fill this, all right?" She handed him her coffee cup, standing so close her knees brushed his.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked, beginning the business of opening cupboards and dishing food.

"Yes, thank you." He accepted the plate and sat down, reaching for the pot to fill his own teacup and then for the other to refill her coffee.

"Morning," Ron growled, stumbling in, unshaven and raspy-voiced...rumpled and sexy. Harry did his best to suppress his libido as Ron walked over to nuzzle Hermione's neck, and she shivered.

"Good morning to you," she said, smiling at him. "Sleep well?"

"Oh, very well," he assured her, and then he leered at Harry from behind her head. There was no mistaking the expression…it was a very definite leer.

The funny twist of guilt was back in Harry's stomach, and so was an all-too familiar liquid lust.

"Hungry?" Hermione lifted the lid off the frying pan again.

"Oh, yeah," and now the look Ron was giving Harry was positively _obscene_, and the unexplained bruises on his legs throbbed, and so did something else. With mind-blowing clarity, smells and pains and leers fell into place with a memory rising to the surface of strong lips against his mouth and a hard cock rubbing his own. He dropped his fork.

"Harry?" Hermione, wrapped in her delicate pink dressing gown, gave him a concerned look. His best friend, hair mussed and endearing, worrying about him early in the morning.

He swallowed. "I—I have to go. I—thanks, Hermione."

"Any time, but—" and before she could finish her question, he'd stood and disapparated.

***********************************************  
**  
_August 11, 2001_**

When Ron and Hermione were married, it was two years, ten months, and two days since Ginny's death. It was her birthday.

Hermione's lip trembled when she said she wanted Ginny to be a part of it, and Ron can find logical solutions to problems even if he can't say all the right things. So they were married on August eleventh, and Hermione had no bridesmaid. Harry, standing proud and grinning beside Ron's side, spent a lot of the ceremony turning as though to share a smile with her—I saw him stop and blink fiercely once or twice. But his grin didn't falter.

There were "do you"s and kisses and champagne and dancing and hugging and toasting and tears. Almost all happy tears. And the two of them drove off to spend a week in a small inn, voluntarily leaving Harry standing on his own for the very first time.

Harry waved and smiled until they were out of sight. And then he turned back to the open bar and got very, very drunk.

I held him while he threw up later. And I left a potion beside his bed for the next morning.   
  
*******************************************************

_April 5, 2002_

"Harry?" Hermione's voice rang through the house. Upstairs, Harry cringed and resolved to pretend he wasn't home. Again.

"Harry! Harry, _please_\--Harry, Ron's—Harry—" and this wasn't Hermione's hurt-feelings voice, this was her panic voice, tripping over her words, that he'd only heard about six times in his whole life, and that counted the time he'd been busy being strangled by a plant.

"Hermione?" he shouted, running down the stairs, stumbling until he'd kicked off his slippers. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Harry, Ron's—I can't—he won't—"

Harry didn't waste time trying to get her to calm down. "Stand back, I'm coming through," he said firmly, and hardly waited for her to comply before pitching a handful of powder into the grate and shouting, "Canary's Nest!"

Hermione, when he arrived, was trembling like a leaf and twisting her hands together. "_Breathe_, Hermione!" he said, sharply. "Now what's going on?"

"It's Ron—he's—" she hiccupped and Harry decided to narrow down the possible answers to his question.

"Where is he?"

She pointed to the living room, and when Harry bolted for the door, he saw a long, lanky form sprawled across the carpet, red hair vivid against the soft evergreen Hermione had chosen for the floors. Quickly he checked Ron's pulse, his breathing, cast the diagnostic spells they'd all picked up during the last months of the war.

"Hermione—" he turned to look at her, willing her to make eye contact. "I'm going to Floo St. Mungo's, alright. You stay here and hold his hand and shout if he comes out of it, _all right_?"

She nodded shakily and sat down beside Ron, reaching for his hand. Harry couldn't help but waste a moment in a guilty twinge before running for the fireplace.

Later, when they'd gathered most of the worried clan to the hospital and Hermione was herself again, charging about bullying nurses and demanding to see Healers and trying to remember everything she'd ever read about what could cause sudden unconsciousness, Harry backed into an evilly green corner to wait until they could be told something _useful_.

It took longer than anybody thought it should, but at last—at _last_—Augustus Pye came down the stairs, not smiling but at least not looking grim. "Well, it's good and bad," the healer said, and Harry tried not to rush at him and strangle him for talking like that when they'd been waiting for _news_.

"Mr. Weasley was hit with a very rare curse in the midst of capturing a Dark wizard early this afternoon," Augustus was explaining kindly to Hermione. "Luckily you've got him in here in time and his partner overheard the curse, but it's taken some highly unusual remedies to put him in a position to heal properly, and I'm afraid it'll be rather a shock."

"A…shock?" Hermione replied, faintly, and Harry did his best to convey sympathy while standing six feet away with his fists clenched.

Mrs. Weasley, standing nearby, reached out and pulled Hermione close to her, wrapping both arms around her waist. "Just spit it out, Augustus," she said firmly.

"We've had to put your Ron into a fish, Molly."

Harry blinked.

"A koi, to be precise," the healer went on. "The curse was primarily targeted at his brain tissue, and—"

"And the brain heals best when the soul isn't present," Hermione finished, nodding. "I should have thought of that."

"Hang on," Harry said, loudly, and blushed when everyone turned to look at him. "Are you telling me you've put my best mate's _soul_ into a _fish_?"

"Koi have been known to live for more than a hundred years, Harry, so they're the obvious choice," Hermione explained kindly, the light of thorough research shining in her eyes in an inappropriately sexy way. "And fish carry souls better than mammals or reptiles do; it's the cold blood and the liquid environment, we think, that make them the optimal host."

Augustus was looking at her in surprise. "Well done, Miss Granger. I didn't know you'd made a particular study of recuperative piscine ascension."

She beamed at him. "Well, we were looking at the soul removal for the horcruces, you know, and it really is a fascinating path of research, I've been trying to—but never mind. We can take him home?" A far-off voice in Harry's head somehow found the energy to marvel that even at a time like this, Hermione was bothering about proper plurals.

"Er, yes. Yes, absolutely, although I don't know how much you want to take on…you can take him home if you like, but it really is very difficult to adjust to for some—"

"Of course he's coming home…all of him," she said, firmly. "Heaven knows there's enough of a crew to take it in shifts, if you'll let your nurses show me how to care for him. How long…?"

"Well—that's the thing of it." Augustus looked apologetic. "We're not sure. We're not…entirely…sure that we were called in before some of the damage could be made permanent. It will take a great deal of time, in any case…once his body is healed, the soul will revert on its own. Of course, we can recommend some excellent homes if you would rather provide institutionalized care—"

"No," Harry burst out, and though Hermione looked shaken, and pale, Harry knew, he _knew_ it wasn't at the thought of caring for Ron. "He's coming home with us. We can manage. He belongs with us."

Augustus looked at Hermione, and she nodded, still a little green around the gills, though her expression had gone mulish and determined. "Of course he does."

*************************************************  
**  
_ August 12, 1997 to October 31, 2000_**

In the months it took to find the Horcruxes and defeat You-Kn--_Voldemort_, the three of them caught endless silly little bugs that took a day or two to cure, even with potions; in one memorable case they stayed out in the rain long enough to catch pneumonia.

If it was only one or two of them, you couldn't get the others to go more than a staircase away for love nor money, and when I finally gave in and let them all burrow together under their quilt and cough during the pneumonia, they were better within the week.   
  
*********************************************

_May 19, 2002_

Some weeks later, in the quiet kitchen, Hermione looked up from her chicken to say, casually, "George is going to come and stay, Harry, give us a hand with Ron while I've got this project at work."

"Sure, it'll be good to see him." Harry nodded and took a sip of water. "I'll pack a bag, go home for a few days…I'm sure the place could use it anyway. I don't suppose you can tell me what this big deadline's all about?"

"I'm an Unspeakable, Harry. I could tell you, but then—"

"Okay, okay." They laughed together. Ron had never understood the joke, although as the months passed he'd started to laugh at it simply because they were laughing.

"But what do you mean, you'll pack a bag?" she gave him a severe look as she went to the stove for seconds. "We _discussed_ this, Harry, it was always ridiculous for you to be paying for that high-rent place, and I need you here now."

He shot her a look of his own. "Ron's in one guest room—"

"Your room," she interrupted. He ignored her.

"I'm in the other. If George is coming to stay then where will I sleep? I know you like to drowse off at your desk but I'm not—"

"With me, of course, silly," she said in an exasperated tone of voice, as though he were being deliberately dense.

He turned to look at her full-on. Her lips were pursed just a little, just enough to emphasize the fullness of her lower lip and the pink lip gloss she liked to wear. She was half-turned from the counter, showing every curve of her figure, and the look on her face was fond. "_What_!?"

"Harry, it's not as though we didn't share a bed half the time for nearly a year."

"That was—different!"

"Oh, different how?" She turned her back, displaying her arse in low-slung jeans and giving him a glimpse of a purple flower petal peering out from under the hem of her shirt and _holy shit_ when had Hermione gotten a tattoo? He was getting hard under the table—again, there was a _reason_ he hadn't wanted to move in with them in the first place—and the tension of it made him snappish.

"Well, your _husband_ was there, for one thing!"

"And he wasn't my husband then any more than you were."

"And we were in a life-threatening situation! There were—exceptions!"

"Harry, Ron's body is in a coma and his soul's inside a fish." She gave him one of her patented you-idiot looks as she sat back down. "I don't see what all this fuss is about…besides, if George hears you're leaving to give him space then he won't come and you _know_ you have practice late for the next week. Augustus said somebody has to be in the house at all—"

"Fine! Fine. We'll just…make it work. Now I'm going to go say goodnight to him and go to bed." Harry pushed his chair back and took his dishes to the sink. He could feel Hermione's eyes on him as he washed them and set them in the rack, and he wasn't surprised when she came up to him as he wiped his hands on the dishtowel.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him close. "It'll be all right, Harry, you'll see."

Awkwardly, he hugged her back. "I'm sure it will," he said dryly, and the warm perfume of her nearly overwhelmed him. Hastily, he backed away before she could detect the effect she was having on him. "Good night!"

"Goodnight." He could _hear_ her smirking, and headed for the stairs as fast as he could manage without making it obvious he was running away.

Harry stopped at the door to the room where they were keeping Ron and poked his head in. "Night, mate," he offered, directing his comments to the space in between the fish pond they'd hastily installed in the floor and the still form in the bed. Harry still hadn't quite made up his mind whether it made more sense to talk to the fish or to the empty shell of Ron's body.

George, as it turned out, had resolved this dilemma.

When Harry popped home for a bit of lunch the next day, he found George sitting beside the fish pond, talking cheerily about mutilation, mayhem, and sudden farts. "Wouldn't have been able to market the good old Farting Fudges without you, old fish," he was saying reminiscently. "Ah, we haven't managed to replace you as a test subject yet. But the customers are lining up left and right for free samples, so as long as Fred remembers to get the consent forms signed while I'm here we should be in the clear.

"'Course, that's the real trouble, making sure he remembers. I swear he doesn't know whether he's on his head or his heels with all these wedding plans. If he doesn't get in his four hours a day of making goo-goo eyes with Angelina he goes all quiet and hollow-eyed and starts bumping into walls. Shame, really…soon there'll only be me and Harry left to represent the bachelors of this family. And you can hardly say Harry's living up to having the fun all five of you should be having. It's a terrible burden, really it is.

"I guess Hermione's told you, but Penny's pregnant again—" he broke off and turned to the door. "Harry! Come along to have a chat with Mr. Fin?"

"Wanted to see you, actually," Harry grinned. "Knew you'd be along, old sponger."

"'Spose you've already done most of your chatting with him," George said, accepting a hand up and following Harry toward the kitchen. "Handy, having him in the house."

"Oh, well," Harry shrugged. "I haven't spoken to him much…"

"Why not? Dead cathartic. Tell him all the news…I spent a little while this morning telling him off for putting a gnome in my bed when he was nine. Good to get it off my chest, you know? And no silly excuses or protestations of innocence, either, the prat…he had to float there and take it like a man."

"I suppose I hadn't thought of it like that," Harry said, musingly.

"If you wanted to really let him know what you thought of that Canary Cream in the box of sweets you bought for Ginny your sixth year, now's the time to—"

Harry stopped dead in his tracks. "What? That was _Ron_? Ginny wouldn't talk to me for over an hour, she wound up molting in the middle of Charms…"

George laughed as he disappeared down the stairs. "Who do you think sold him the Cream?"

"You _knew_\--" Harry gave a shout of laughing protest and chased George into the kitchen.

****************************************  
**  
_December 25, 1998_**

Christmas was quiet that year, but for the baby. My first little grandson had a healthy set of lungs.

We were still fighting, still at war; no one had much energy to spend on loud Christmas carols or the prank wars that I remember with terror and nostalgia both from our early years as a family.

But Ron and Hermione and Harry had destroyed the fifth Horcrux only a week before, and three days before that we'd managed a sound victory over a big group of Death Eaters attacking a Muggleborn's family; we all felt we'd _earned_ a pleasant holiday. A happy one.

I _cooked_\--for the first time in months I had the time and the energy to feed everyone everything I could think of. Little Art spent so much time being thrown up in the air and carried around pickaback that I'm still surprised he remembered how to walk on Boxing Day. We exchanged our gifts and kissed under the mistletoe and spent long, long minutes clasping one another in tight hugs.

As the day drew to a close, people who had been drowsing in the sitting room with full bellies began to drift off to bed, calling "Merry Christmas!" and kissing their loved ones goodnight. Finally, there was only me and Arthur and the Young Heroes (as Fred and George liked to call them). They had been playing on the quilt with the baby, and when he finally passed out and had to be returned to his mother, they collapsed where they were, Hermione with her head in Ron's lap and Ron's feet across Harry's legs. They were trying to throw popcorn into each others' mouths, and they'd missed so often the quilt was scattered with white kernels, like stars.

And they were laughing.   
  
******************************************

_May 20, 2002_

Harry stayed late at practice…later than necessary. And then he went out with some of his teammates. And then he went for a walk. A long walk. It was nearly one o'clock when he finally gave up and went back to the house.

As he'd hoped, the house was dark and quiet. He kicked off his shoes and tiptoed up the stairs, getting ready for bed quickly in the bathroom. When he crept into the room that he was going to share with Hermione, he was wearing long flannel pyjamas and holding an extra pillow like a shield. The light from the hallway spilled in, casting a golden glow across the bed.

She stirred and stretched, revealing unbearably touchable skin above her waistband. "Harry?" she squeaked, not opening her eyes.

"Yeah, Hermione," he said, quietly.

"You're home late."

"I know. Go back to sleep."

"Mmmm. Come to bed."

His heart jumped to his throat as his eyes followed her fingers rubbing the skin just above her breasts. "Right…" he breathed, sliding in between the sheets, almost without being aware of it.

As easily and naturally as though they always slept that way, Hermione reached to pull him to her, one arm wrapped around him. "Night, Harry," she murmured, snuggling close.

"Good night."

Harry resigned himself to a night of wakefulness, his cock straining against his pants.

When he woke the next morning, Hermione was gone. His erection, on the other hand, seemed quite content to remain present for the rest of his natural life, encouraged by a warm hollow in the mattress and the lingering scent of Hermione's shampoo. He cringed and hoped that Hermione hadn't noticed.

She seemed quite oblivious when he got downstairs, joking with George about the last birthday dinner at the Burrow. She was dressed already—going in to work early again, he thought fondly. She looked smart and well-finished and amazingly appealing in her professional robes. Harry swore under his breath and pasted on a smile before he went in to help make breakfast.

Over the next few days, they established a new routine, Hermione waking before Harry and starting breakfast, Harry staying out as late as he could manage and coming home long after Hermione's usual bedtime. Harry pushed himself hard at practice, trying to wear himself out, but he was never tired enough to avoid popping up as soon as Hermione cuddled close to him at night.

Friday night, he didn't get in until nearly two, his teammates having taken advantage of the fact that they had no practice in the morning to haul him off to a club. He was pleasantly tipsy when he walked in, getting into his pajamas with only one or two stumbles. He strolled into Hermione's bedroom, and stopped, and stared.

A curtain of red satin was just falling down her back, cloaking her red-clad arse as well as a blue star etched at the southernmost point of her spine. She turned.

"Harry!" she smiled, completely unperturbed. "I'm glad I got to see you before I went to bed."

He closed his mouth and swallowed. "I—I didn't know you had a tattoo, Hermione," he managed to get out, trying for playful. He had a strong suspicion he wasn't managing it.

She grinned anyway. "Not exactly." She turned and lifted the nightgown above her curved hips, shooting him a look over her shoulder. "Come see."

Almost in a trance, he walked over and took the hem of the nightgown from her, pushing the cloth out of the way to look more closely at the ink on her skin.

"See the faint shadows? That was a flower last week…they're those Muggle temporary things."

He reached out to trace the faint traces of purple with a shaky finger. "Why…?"

She grinned up at him. "Ron has a thing about tattoos…but I have a _thing_ about needles, remember?" The last petal dipped down into the dimple of her—"Now…I suppose they help me feel close to him still."

—Harry pulled his finger back as though burnt. Hermione's eyes dimmed. "Bed?"

Harry nodded fervently. "Bed."

They turned off the lights and climbed between the sheets, and Hermione scooted over until she was next to him. She wrapped one arm around his chest and flung a bare leg over his thigh. "Night, Harry," she said innocently.

"Night," he replied, and cursed both his fervent imagination and the things he no longer had to imagine.

He woke up the next morning with Hermione still wrapped around him, her hand having drifted somewhat during the night. She was murmuring against his ear and moving in her sleep, fingers tangled in the sensitive trail of hair on his stomach, knee massaging his upper thigh. For a sleepy moment, he moved back against her, one hand reaching to trace up and down her thigh as consciousness stole up on him.

He sat up straight, and bolted.

**************************************  
**  
_September 8, 2001_**

I was a little worried, after the wedding, that Harry would retreat into himself, the way that he had after Ginny died. It was a different kind of loss, but it could still be very hard on a person, to be shut out—even unintentionally—by the dearest people in the world to him.

I needn't have fretted.

They came by one Saturday afternoon, all three of them laughing and talking, to ask us to come on a picnic with them. Arthur was working late at the Ministry again, and I had my mending to do, but I packed them a lunch and sent them out into the garden with their quilt.

They spread it on the lawn and tucked into sandwiches, Hermione full of life, chattering happily about her job offer from the Department of Mysteries, both boys lazing on the grass and watching her happiness.

They're so good to each other.   
  
*****************************************

_May 26, 2002_

The next morning, George went home. When Harry came back from brunch out with Luna, he shrugged out of his cloak and went upstairs, calling, "Hermione?"

His only answer was a very loud and unattractive _sne-ert_, coming from Ron's room. At the door, he was confronted with the sight of his best friend, pale and re-eyed, tears dripping down her cheeks, clutching a large rubber puddle of vomit against the front of her dress and sobbing. He hovered, unsure of how to handle this.

"Are—are you all right?"

"George left some fake vomit on the floor next to Ron's body," she snuffled, wiping fiercely at her eyes.

"And that…made you cry?" Harry was doing his best, here, but…

"I thought…I thought he'd thrown up, I thought his body was responding, and Augustus said that might be a sign he was ready to wake up, and then we could get him back to normal and it wouldn't be hopeless and my fault it's hopeless any more and then I realized it smelled like an eraser so it wasn't his body and it just…" And she burst into tears again.

"Whoa—whoa, Hermione, slow down," Harry told her. Tentatively, he reached out and pulled her to him, cradling her head in one hand, and patted her back. It seemed to be the right thing to do—she burrowed into him and kept crying. "What's this about it being your fault?"

"I—Augustus—if I hadn't panicked—if I'd gotten him straight to the hospital—he would've been all right, it wouldn't be _permanent_\--"

"Hermione, you don't know that," he protested. "And it's not gonna be permanent, okay? I promise. I promise you, he'll come out of it and bounce right back and be back cheering at my games and harassing you at work before you know it."

"Really?" She snorted again and looked up at him, eyes and nose streaming, and god, but he wanted to kiss every one of her tears away.

"Yeah," he said, helplessly.

"Okay," she murmured. "Okay."

She drew a few more shuddering breaths, and stopped. Tactfully, Harry pried the rubber vomit from her fingers. "Go wash your face, alright?"

She nodded and left. Harry dropped the puddle on the foot of the bed and took a moment to scrub at his own face with his hands. When he let them drop, as though waiting to pounce, Ron's body was just in front of him.

"This is all your fault, you know," he said, violently, addressing Ron with actual conversation for the first time since they'd brought him home. "If you hadn't gone out and got yourself _hexed_ we wouldn't _be_ in this mess!"

Ron seemed to be listening.

"If you could simply look _after_ yourself properly, instead of going about taking curses to the head and collapsing on the hearthrug Hermione would be _fine_. It's you all comatose that's got her so worried. And it's you and your stupid need to have someone else in the house that's got me all hot and bothered about her, too."

"If you hadn't needed George, he wouldn't have come. And if he hadn't come, he wouldn't have taken my bed. And if he hadn't taken my bed, I wouldn't have spent the past week pretending to be Hermione's _teddy bear_, and Hermione's teddy bear wouldn't be going mad trying not to fuck your wife!

"It was never this bad, it was _never_ this bad before you went and seduced me while I was drunk and lonely and then went and got your brain turned off before I could get up the nerve to punch you for cheating on my best friend!"

Ron lay still, quiescent, acknowledging his guilt.

"And it's not as though I can _confess_ to her when you're lying in a coma—"

"I know," a voice interrupted from the doorway.

Harry froze.

"Did you think you could have sex with my husband in my house without my knowing?" Hermione continued softly. "Did you think Ron wouldn't tell me?" She touched his arm. "Did you think—Harry, _look at me_\--did you think he would ever, ever do that if he didn't know I'd approve?"

At that, he finally obeyed her, and his jaw dropped when he saw that she was smiling and she was unbuttoning the front of her dress with one hand

"Hermione, what—"

"Harry, we've been waiting so _long_\--we wanted so badly to take care of you—we wanted _you_ so—"

But Harry, finally reassured, finally free of guilt, and finally, _finally_, oh god, able to see her breasts, had snapped, pulling her to him, drowning in her, feasting on her lips like a starving man.

Hermione moaned, a low, throaty sound, and pressed herself up against him, opened her mouth to him, surrendered to his tongue. They pulled and pushed at each other, hands walking one another's bodies. Finally Harry began to kiss down the side of her face, her neck, nipping and sucking and licking at every bit of skin he could reach.

"Yes," she hissed. "Oh, god, Harry…do you have any idea…"

"What?" he muttered into her skin, scraping her throat with his teeth.

"You were so hot together…rocking and thrusting…Ron's shirt got so dark, so sweaty, trying to get you off…the look on your face…I thought you were gonna…"

He caught at her mouth again, fumbling with the catch of her bra, bending her back in an effort to find just the right angle. His hand caught at her arse where it joined her thigh, and squeezed, and she yelped and fell backwards onto the bed, pulling him with her.

Harry chuckled, low and deep, and began to roll them over…and stopped.

Hermione froze. "What is it?"

"Did…did you say…you did, didn't you…that when Ron's body began responding it'd mean he was about to wake up?"

She sucked in her breath and turned to look at her husband slowly, as though she hardly dared.

"He's hard," Harry said, unnecessarily.

"And—his breathing's faster…" Hermione sat up and crawled over to straddle Ron's body, reaching to his neck with trembling fingers. "His pulse is up…_Harry_…"

Harry moved until he could cling to her other hand, then reached out and poked Ron in the ribs.

Ron shifted his hips and said, "Mmmmm…"

Harry poked him again.

"Mmmm…'Mione…you're awfully wet…" Ron murmured, still circling his hips.

"Ron!" Harry exclaimed, blushing a little.

Ron blinked his eyes open. "…Harry?"

"All right there, mate?"

"Yes, but…" he looked around in confusion, taking in the room."Last I knew you weren't speaking to me and I was in the sitting room. Is there a reason Hermione and I are having sex on your bed?"

"It seems Hermione was spying on us, mate," Harry began.

"Yeah, I knew that."

Harry hit him. "You might have told me!"

"Caught up in the moment, like."

Harry hit him again. "And she finally saw fit to tell me that the two of you have been wanting me."

"True."

"And since it seemed to me she might be feeling left out, and because I have spent the past week aroused out of my _mind_—"

"_Week_?"

"We were on our way to shagging until you started getting hard, too."

"What? I don't get any of the fun?"

"Well," Hermione said, a coy look on her face, beginning to shift her hips against him. "If you feel _up_ to it…"

"Don't I feel up to you?" her husband asked plaintively.

"Well, then," Harry said, and rolled himself on top of Ron, legs still to one side. He grinned down at his friend, lightheaded with relief and joy and fulfillment and—as Hermione reached down to stroke his arse and Ron smiled back, his eyes mirroring Harry's feelings—deep, strong, rising lust. His skin prickled as he stared, as the mood shifted from playful to loving…all kinds of loving.

Slowly—oh, so slowly—he lowered his mouth until he could brush Ron's lips with his. Hermione made a small sound, and he could feel the involuntary jerk of her hips. He smiled and reached behind him as he began to trace Ron's lips with his tongue, taking her by the hand and tugging gently until she was lying on top of both of them, her breasts heavy and her nipples hard against his shoulder blades.

Now that she could reach, Hermione went to work with a will, sucking his neck just below his ear, and Harry groaned, Ron taking advantage of his open mouth to thrust his tongue inside. He could feel Ron's arm moving as he groped at Hermione's arse, which was making Hermione shift against him, and his cock, driven beyond endurance, was pushing into Ron's side.

Focused on the movement of tongue to tongue and on the incredible pleasure Hermione was giving his neck, he didn't notice a small hand creeping up under his shirt until two fingers took sharp hold of one nipple, and _tweaked_. He grunted, and his hips thrust forward, and suddenly he couldn't take any more slow and gentle and loving. He had _always_ had that from them…he needed _more_.

He sat up to pull off his shirt and yank off his trousers and pants, then rolled again, pulling Hermione with him, on top of him, tangling her legs and his and Ron's in a mix that would probably take days to unwind, but he didn't care, he was _kissing_ her, hard and hot, and Ron's cock was rubbing against the crease of his arse.

Ron growled and rolled, too, tangling them together further, one lanky arm going around Hermione so that he could rub roughly at her breast, the other going up to tangle fingers in Harry's hair. He wormed his nose up in between theirs, darting his tongue between their lips and teeth, nipping at their chins. He licked the corner of Harry's mouth and began to nibble his way down Hermione's neck. Harry could feel Ron's head bumping against them, said _mmmmph_ when Ron's hair tickled his chest as Ron began to suck Hermione's nipples through her bra.

Harry fumbled down, yanking at Hermione's dress until the skirt of it was above her waist, slid his hand down the back of her knickers to slick his fingers in her soaked cunt, pushing the tips of his fingers into her.

Hermione let out a grunt of her own and wiggled, trying to get more of him inside her—then whimpered when he pulled his hand away. He reassured her with a swipe of his tongue across her lips, and pushed her knickers down, awkwardly, until Ron realized what he was doing and brought his own hand down to help.

Suddenly his cock wasn't rubbing against rough lace, but sliding against wet, human flesh, and he cried out and thrust up against it. Apparently he'd caught Hermione's clit, because she moaned—and he did it again. He could feel Ron thrusting against his hip—when had Ron's pajama pants come down?—and he used his free hand to reach down and pull his friend's cock, but most of him was centered in the _need_ to rub his cock against curly pubic hair and slick skin.

Hermione and Ron were both grunting now, thrusting against him, finding a practiced rhythm even though they weren't directly fucking each other, and a distant part of him was astonished at how easy it was to feel and follow this timing of theirs, Hermione's rolling hips catching his at just the right point and pressure to pull a sob from her, his fist touching the base of Ron's cock just as she cried out.

With a last fierce kiss, Hermione gave up their mouth-to-mouth contact; she tried to reach Ron's face, but after only one attempt gave up and lay her head on his shoulder, muttering, "Oh, god, oh god, oh god," as Harry thrust against her, and the sound of Ron's lips against her nipple increased with each word. Harry thrust up against her faster, too, and suddenly her body tensed and tried to fling itself outward as she moaned loudly.

The sound of her pulled Harry over the edge, and it took supreme focus to keep on jerking at Ron's cock as every nerve in his body stretched and jangled. Fortunately, Ron, too, had been teetering on the edge, and it wasn't long before there was wet warmth spilling over his fingers.

All three of them finally sated, they collapsed, tugging at their last vestiges of clothing until they were all bare, still tracing nipples and freckles with fingers and tongues.

"Two questions," Ron said, sleepily, after a moment.

"Hmmm?" Harry bit a love bite on Hermione's neck he was fairly certain he hadn't put there.

"First, a week?"

"Actually, you've been out for nearly two months," Hermione said. "One of the dark wizards you got on the fifth of April hexed you. Augustus had to put your soul into a fish while your body healed. Actually, we should take you in for a check-up."

"A fish?"

"Don't ask me, mate," Harry said, absently, wondering what the fourth freckle from Ron's navel might taste like. "You've come out of it okay, that's all I know."

"Huh." Ron seemed to contemplate this for a few moments. "Okay, next question?"

"Yeah?" Harry began moving down the bed, to find the answer to his own question.

"Is there a reason there's a large rubber puddle of vomit at the foot of the bed?"

**************************************************

 

 

 

** EPILOGUE**

 

_October 31, 2000_

When we got back from Hogwarts after the last battle, Ron and Hermione clung to Harry, as near as he would let them, though he flinched every time they brushed against his skin. My own eyes were still dry as I saw to tea and biscuits, checking each Order member for injuries and making them sit and drink, though many of them wore the tear-tracks of fright and pain and relief.

Across the room, as I scolded Remus for refusing his tea, I saw Harry shake his head and push Ron's hand off him. "Drink," I called back over my shoulder, and went to the bottom of the stairs to summon the quilt Hermione had made for them.

Ron was hovering over the both of them as Hermione made Harry sit on the sofa beside her. I handed the comforter to him wordlessly, and he settled on Harry's other side, passing one corner of the quilt to Hermione, who wrapped it around her shoulders and curled up close to Harry, hair still sticking to her cheek where someone's hex had scored a faint line of blood. Ron put his hand behind Harry to tangle his fingers in her hair, and rested his cheek on Harry's head. Harry stiffened immediately, tried to rise, but the two of them reached across him to link hands, blocking his escape route, pinning him beneath the quilt in his lap.

"Molly?" Arthur called, and I went to him, but when I had a chance to watch again a few minutes later, Harry had closed his eyes and leaned back, pressing his body against Hermione's and his head to Ron's arm. Hermione had silent tears leaking down her face, and my Ronnie was rubbing her hand where it rested in Harry's lap, their pale fingers framed by green yarn, a Hungarian Horntail guarding their grasp.

Harry tentatively put his hand toward theirs, and they opened their fingers to wrap around his palm. All at once, he relaxed against them, the guarded weariness dropping from his face.

Safe, I thought. He's safe, and it is done.   
  
********************************************  
_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: Thanks to Dr. Komei Koshihara for his little talk about carp, as it gave me some basis for my own idea that a koi should be a part of Ron's healing process.


End file.
